


A Cup of Ghosts

by typewrittencurlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Greg Lestrade, Background Relationships, Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Caring Greg Lestrade, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Everyone Is Gay, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft Holmes Needs a Hug, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Protective Greg, Protectiveness, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Suicide Attempt, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:54:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typewrittencurlie/pseuds/typewrittencurlie
Summary: Mike.His name was Mike, and Greg was waiting for the day the beautiful man that every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, came to his small cafe and typed away on that damn laptop, to notice him.Mike probably didn't even see how Greg tried to always keep his favorite writer's mug full, or give him the perfect croissant...Greg didn't know that 'Mike' was really Mycroft Holmes, CEO of Holmes Publishings, working on his dream of simply being an author. Greg didn't know about the ghosts. Greg didn't notice the scars Mycroft kept hidden.But the roads we walk have demons beneath, and ghosts don't always like to stay invisible.READ THE TAGS.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade, Richard Brook/Mycroft Holmes (one sided), Sally Donovan/Sarah Sawyer, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 36
Kudos: 160





	1. "Talk To Him, Damnit!"

He was beautiful, and his name was Mike.

Those were the only two things that Greg Lestrade knew about the man. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, rain or shine, Mike would sit in the bay window of Greg's cafe, The Mug and Spoon, typing away on his expensive laptop. Greg couldn't help but wonder about the posh red-haired man, in his thee piece suits that looked just as expensive as his laptop.

Who was he? 

Greg knew most of the people in his small village, and he was certain that this gorgeous man wasn't from anywhere around here.

"Greg, I just got a text from your sister. She said that the numbers are looking up, and your cafe is finally back in the black, so you don't need to worry." Sally Donovan, Greg's old army buddy, and his only employee, tossed her thick, curly black hair, and glared. "Are you even listening to a word I'm saying?"

"Hmn, yeah. Great." Greg absentmindedly doodled on his notepad, drawing a pair of nimble hands, hands capable of both flying over a keyboard for hours and taking Greg to parts unknown with a gentle touch. Writer's hands. Mike's hands.

Sally snuck a glance at the notepad that was supposed to be the shopping list of items the cafe needed from her weekly trip to London, and sighed in frustration. "For fuck's sake, Greg, next time he's here, go and _talk_ to your mystery man, instead of pining after someone who probably doesn't even know your name!"

Greg sighed as well, putting down the pen.

He couldn't explain exactly why he was so bloody nervous about simply starting a conversation with Mike. He had self confidence issues - caused by his ex-wife, Cindy, in all honesty. He feared he would never be manly enough for someone, and fuck up his relationship with Mike by being, well, _Greg._

But these insidious thoughts weren't real. He had been _abused_ by that bitch over the course of their three year relationship, and she was cheating from day one. She lied, and he couldn't stand it when someone made him trust them, believe them, and then rip it all away.

Her name hadn't even been Cindy.

But Mike was different, or so Greg hoped. Mike was gentle, and kind. Greg occasionally messed up his order, every once in a while giving him a medium roast instead of a light, but he never complained, simply asking for the correct coffee when he came back for a refill.

But, come Monday, Greg would finally take the leap, and talk to Mike.

* * *

_"Sherlock!_ I am not writing that into my novel!" Mycroft Holmes growled over the line, as he had yet another argument with his little brother turned editor over how his spy novel should read. "I refuse to make my debut piece of fiction into a... a porno!"

"Oh, come _on,_ Brother Mine, all the research says that readers in your genre like a little friskiness on the part of the protagonist. I, personally, prefer not to have sex interrupt the action, but you have to give the blithering masses what they want." Sherlock's derisive snort could be heard all the way from London in this sleepy little hamlet. He'd banished his older brother there after yet another missed deadline due to his meddling in the company's day to day business.

"Sherlock, it is _my_ book. I will not write In a sex scene just so you and John can get a laugh out of it!" Mycroft angrily ended the call, and stalked to one of the many bedrooms in the manor house that had been in the Holmes family for centuries. Flopping down on the luxurious four poster bed, he cursed his brother in every one of the fourteen languages he knew.

Sherlock was a master at the art of getting under Mycroft's skin, but usually he was right. It still didn't mean that he was going to put it in his book, though. Mycroft remembered a time long past, when the two brothers had been closer than anything.

When they were young, the two had been nearly inseparable. He had striven to be the best big brother for little Sherl, to be the parent substitute that they both needed, as their publisher parents left them in the care of nanny after nanny, while they traveled the globe promoting their company.

Everything changed when their parents were killed in a plane crash in Serbia. Sherlock had been eleven, and Mycroft was barely eighteen when he was forced to take over the family business. Sherlock must have felt abandoned as Mycroft's fifteen hour days left very little room for his little brother.

The siblings grew close again after a family emergency caused Mycroft to rely on his brother, but they weren't truly close until John Watson entered their lives as the General Manager of Holmes Publishings, giving Mycroft the space he needed to work on his true passion: crafting adventure novels.

Mycroft had long been fascinated by the words of Jules Verne, and H. Rider Haggard's character Alan Quartermaine. In his youth, he had devoured the leather bound works of C.S. Lewis and H.G. Wells. As a teenager who had truly no one to relate to, he turned to books like Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter to find companionship with the written words of people he had never, and most likely would never, meet. Dracula and Frankenstein were loved in equal measure, as was the works of Tom Clancy.

Mycroft flung an arm over his face in his despair, as he thought of the respected authors whose ranks he longed to join.

Would no one take him seriously? He wished, prayed to God even though he was never particularly faithful, that _someone_ would just for once see past his CEO position and his wealth to the real Mycroft.

See through the Iceman facade to his secretly romantic soul.

Mycroft padded off to the kitchen in the horribly decorated house that he, at least legally, owned, with a fatigued sigh. However much Sherlock may desire the large estate, Baskerville Manor was his birthright as the oldest son. He couldn't see what all of the fuss was about, but then again, Sherlock never really made much sense in his personal life.

The aspiring writer filled the old fashioned kettle, preparing himself a soothing cup of Earl grey tea, and pulled out of the fridge a small container of nuts, dried fruit, and cheese. Coffee and carbs were two things that he reserved for the special days he went into town, and the only place he would get them from was the Mug and Spoon cafe. The owner of the small coffeeshop - Gavin? Graham? Something along those lines - made quite possibly the best cup of coffee that Mycroft had ever tasted.

The handsome man bustled about his coffeeshop with his girlfriend, taking orders and filling drinks like he was born to. Upon his first glimpse of the cafe owner, Mycroft had set strict rules for his interaction with him, for the sole purpose of limiting the possibility of developing any sort of wayward romantic attachment. He refused to allow himself to grow close to that prematurely graying, tanned, molasses eyed...

Dammit Holmes, _no!_ Mycroft reprimanded himself for going weak at the knees, and considering that a man so obviously straight could possibly think he was worthy. He was a tired, slightly overweight, gingery, thirty-two year old man that no one found attractive, let alone a perfectly straight male.

Which was why, upon seeing this beautiful creature, Mycroft had known he wouldn't return his affections. So he went as far as giving a nickname of his, Mike, instead of his real name, to put further distance between him and the man.

However, his prospects of remaining detached and distant were shrinking by the hour.

* * *

Greg dragged himself to the apartment above his shop that night - his home for the past three years, ever since his divorce - and felt the sharp pangs of loneliness shoot through his chest as he looked around his empty flat. He'd spent Sunday trying not to strangle the annoying hipster who had come into the cafe today and complained constantly about his coffee. She had ordered the most complicated drink on his menu and demanded that he customize it to her elitist standards.

What he wouldn't have given for 'a black coffee, please,' Mike, who never gave him any grief about his grind, or whined when he was out of croissants. Mike, who never even needed a last name, and was the steadiest patron he had.

Greg sighed, kicking off his shoes and trudging through to his shabby living room. He wondered what his beautiful stranger would say to him if he were to ask him to dinner. Would he give a shy smile, and a 'how about Thursday?' Or would he grin and nod, with a confident, 'I would like that very much, Greg.'

Greg thought of Mike and the little things that he did that made him watch avidly with a fascinated grin on his face. Like the way he tended to pick apart his croissants, eating them in layers, seemingly as an afterthought as he typed. Or the way those gorgeous blue-gray eyes would light up, his mouth curving into a smile as he nibbled on his lower lip while he read over the writing he'd done.

Greg imagined those very same nimble fingers unbuttoning his shirt, and sliding though the sparse dark brown hair on his chest, and those expressive eyes darkening in desperate pleasure as Greg slipped his hand beneath that trim, pinstriped waistband.

"Fuck..." Greg moaned as he undid his trousers, palming his hardness through the thin cotton of his pants. "Mi-ike... God... How I wish you were mine, posh boy."

Half an hour later, Greg was feeling rather pervy for what he'd just done - wanked to the thoughts of a man he'd hardly said a word to. But it wasn't simply about the orgasm for Greg. It was Greg wanting the physical closeness of another human being. He didn't know Mike, but he _wanted_ to know him more than anything.

He wanted to know what it felt like to make that beautiful face light up with happiness as he received a bouquet of flowers. He wanted so much more than a one night stand. He wanted to give his heart. The heart that he hadn't shown to anyone since his divorce. He'd purposefully refrained from flirting with customers, and the only person he allowed himself to show any affection for was Sally, his only friend.

Sally Donovan had known Greg since long before Cindy came into the picture, and she'd never liked the she-devil he'd married out of guilt. Greg had met Sally in the Army, and she'd stuck with him through the battlefields and cities in Afghanistan like glue. Their captain, John Watson had told them to just get hitched once, to which Sally quipped that she was a complete lesbian, but otherwise she was game.

She was a good friend, and if Sally approved of him approaching Mike, that was good enough for him. He mentally went over what he would say, and imagining what his handsome man would say in return.

Halfway through Mike's reply to him asking the posh writer to dinner, Greg fell asleep, cuddling a pillow he so clearly wanted to be a certain tall, red haired stranger.

* * *

"Mycroft... Stay?" The silver haired spectre of Mycroft's dreams begged. He had shamelessly flirted over dinner, and the bold version of Mycroft that only appeared while he was asleep had returned the flirting with abandon. 

His nighttime imaginings played out the tender love that Mycroft craved deep in his soul, showing him what his heart had always known he deserved. Mycroft's dreams gave him the images of a night of gentle caresses and loving sex that Mycroft hand never received in his previous relationship.

But it couldn't last, as the pressure of his CEO position on the dream-Mycroft proved to be too much. It wouldn't allow him to stay in this small, wonderfully shabby apartment. He couldn't keep his his coffeeshop owner, not even in a dream. And certainly not in reality, either.

"I can't, Greg. I'm sorry..." He whispered as he tugged on his trousers, somehow remembering the elusive name that was burned into his heart, but had been erased from his mind. He placed a kiss to Gregory's damp forehead, whispering, "I can't be here. I can't be with you, my love."

"No! Mycroft, _please..."_ His Greg sobbed, reaching out to him as the dream faded, leaving the now awake Mycroft in tears.

 _\- Why did I ever come here? -_ He thought to himself miserably, as he laid in bed, desperate and alone. _\- Above all, why did I ever meet Greg Lestrade? -_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert in comments! You have been warned.
> 
> Just pertained to the MCD.


	2. Are you alright, Gregory?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg finally works up the courage to talk to his beautiful stranger, what could go wrong?

Mycroft stepped into the Mug and Spoon cafe on Monday, trembling on the inside. He was completely unsure about what would happen when he saw Greg, but he knew that today, something would give. He didn't know what, but somehow he knew that the dynamic between him and his coffeeshop owner was going to be different, even if it was only one sided. 

Gregory had his usual cheerfulness as he stood behind the counter, and for once, Mycroft returned the broad smile with a small smile of his own. "A black coffee, please?"

Greg's grin, if it was even possible, grew sunnier, as he gave a short laugh. "Anything else?" He asked as he began to fix the coffee, grabbing the mug that had become Mycroft's. 

"Maybe a croissant..."

"'Course Mike. Coming right up." Greg seemed to think about what croissant he gave him, selecting one that was a perfect crescent, with a golden brown top, and handed it to Mycroft, who put it on his tab for the day. Greg bit his lip as Mycroft smiled and began to turn away.

"Mike, are you a writer?" Came out suddenly, and Mycroft turned back.

"Ah, yes, Greg. I write." Mycroft bit his lip, hesitating by the till, as he longed to continue the conversation.

"What do you do in your free time?"

"I don't have very much of that."

* * *

Fuck.

Greg knew that he had messed up royally. Why the hell hadn't he used some other line, complimented him, _something?_

Now he was here, behind the counter, and Mike was there, lost in the amazing novel he was writing. Greg looked over at him from time to time, and tried his best not to walk up to him and ask him out in no uncertain terms.

But he'd made it quite clear that he was not interested in him. Christ, Greg didn't even know if Mike was into men!

Greg morosely went through the rest of the day, bemoaning his fate. He tried to be cheerful, as he refilled Mike's mug several times, but it grew harder and harder to stay positive.

How could he have ever thought that Mike would be interested in him? Mike was posh, confident, and clearly flush. What would a man like him want with a washed up sniper turned shabby cafe owner? He was going gray already, and Greg was only thirty five... No one wanted him.

Sally caught Greg's pleading glances at the writer in the cafe's best seat, and she _knew._ She knew that Greg had tried to start up a conversation with the man. She knew, with just as much certainty, that Mike had been slightly less than warm, but not exactly cold to her best friend. Shaking her head, she tapped Greg on the shoulder, and indicated the back room. "Come on."

"We've got customers, Sally."

She huffed in irritation, and forcibly dragged him away by his collar.

"Greg, talk to me. What did you say? What did _he_ say?" She demanded, tapping her foot, and crossing her arms.

"I asked him what he did in his free time, and he said that he doesn't have much of that." Greg sighed, fisting his hands in his graying hair and wondered if he should start to dye it yet. "I mean, if that wasn't a 'Sorry, even if I was gay, I'm not interested', then I don't know what is!"

"Greg." Sally shook her head, and pulled him into a soft hug. "Don't you dare give up on him. Look at me and Sarah, do you think I just threw in the towel when she was always busy? Keep trying."

"I will, Sally. Thanks."

* * *

Mycroft watched as Greg emerged from the back room with his eyes puffy like he'd been having a cry, and his heart ached at the sight. He longed to soothe his cafe owner, run his hands through those silver locks, and press his lips to his Greg's forehead. What happened to him that he actually had to go and cry over the loss? _Who had hurt you, Greg_? Mycroft wondered.

He brought his mug to the counter, and his stomach dropped at the sight of the small dose of fear in the other man's eyes. He asked, "May I have another refill, Greg?" He tried to say it gently, as if any harshness on his part would break his Greg further. Mycroft couldn't identify the slight glimmer of... something in Greg's eyes as the other man smiled at him tentatively.

He smiled as well, as his coffeeshop owner came back with his light roast, and Mycroft asked, "Gregory, are you alright? You look a bit peaky, and I'd hate to see you sick." The space between Mycroft's eyes crinkled up in worry, and he chewed on his lower lip.

"Nah, Mike. I'm fine. Just got a bit of a scare, that's all." His smile was slightly weak, but the hope of whatever he was worried about resolving itself was unmistakable.

Mycroft smiled, sipping his coffee, and went back to his writing.

He was forced to admit that he had the slight ghost of a hope that Gregory had broken up with his girlfriend, but he was sadly disappointed, seeing them embrace each other out of the corner of his eye as he wrote.

But at least he was happy.

* * *

Sally was glad that Mike wasn't as much of a wanker ad she'd feared he was going to be, and she shook her head as she watched him send Greg a long admiring look while he stepped out of the door. Her two fools.

Sally started to walk down the street to her house, and became concerned about her wife when she saw the kitchen light on this late at night.

"Sarah?" She called, as she locked the door behind her and took off her coat. "Are you alright, beautiful?"

"I'm in the kitchen!" Her adorable little wife called out, and Sally breathed a sigh of relief as she saw her at the worktop, wearing a flowery apron, and up to her elbows in pie crust.

She was glad it hadn't been a rough day then, but simply a long one.

"Another bake sale, baby?" Sally asked, as she stood behind her wife, wrapping her arms around the thin waist and nuzzling her neck.

"Yep. We need some new lab equipment, but we also need a few more nurses, and the budget won't allow both." Sally hummed softly, simply drawing comfort from Sarah's presence. "How's Greg?" Sally huffed irritatedly. "That bad, huh?"

"Mike refuses to see what is staring straight back at him! If the fool would actually _look_ at Greg, he'd make the both of them happier than anything. But at least he knows his name..." Sally's breath ruffled the short hairs on the back of Sarah's neck, and she went to get the leftover takeaway from the fridge for their dinner, to tired to cook.

As Sarah paused her baking to sit and eat, she asked, ruefully smiling, "Was I ever that thick?"

"Thicker. But I still love you."

"You too, babe. You're my favorite person."

* * *

Greg woke up the next day, well rested and ready to take on the world. Nothing, absolutely nothing could go wrong today.

Yet, as the day progressed, it seemed like his morning prediction was hopelessly skewed. _Everything_ went wrong, somehow.

Tuesdays were Sally's days to take a trip into London, seeing as it was her wife's day off, and they drove their large, worn pick up truck to the city to get the items that the shop needed from the wholesale warehouse Greg used.

So Greg was left to tend to the customers by himself those days, which usually went fine, but today was an absolute shitshow. Somehow the milk frother broke, and though they had a second one, it was finicky, half the time leaving him with a bubbly mess, instead of the creamy foam that it was supposed to make.

Catastrophe number two: a sudden demand for caramel, when they were already running low on the stuff. He'd ended up running out by the middle of the afternoon, and had four customers walk out when he said that he didn't have any.

By the end of the day, all Greg wanted to do was curl up in bed with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, and read a good book until he passed out.

At least he would be able to see Mike tomorrow...

* * *

Mycroft had known Sherlock would visit him. He'd dreaded it like was a highly infectious tropical disease. His little brother sat in _his_ chair, reading _his_ novel, on _his_ laptop, with an arrogant, cynical little smirk, and gave a few derisive snorts here and there, just to show how little he cared for it. However, Mycroft had no idea if this was merely an act, and Sherlock refusing to admit his fragile older brother actually had a talent besides falling apart.

"I can get a different editor, Sherlock, if you cannot remain impartial," Mycroft sighed, leaning his elbows on his desk and resting his head in his hands. "There's about five that I know will treat my novel with respect. If you cannot..."

"Mycroft, your novel, it's actually... As much as I like to tease you about your hobby, you are actually quite good at it. For a spy novel, which you know that I can't stand the entire genre, I find I want to finish it." Sherlock gave his brother a soft smile, and Mycroft looked up just before it disappeared. He seemed to approve of this venture. "There are a few glaring mistakes..."

"It is a rough draft, Sherlock. I need to go back over it a few times to correct any inconsistencies before I let you sink your teeth into it." Mycroft sighed, knowing that this was just the beginning. After the novel was finished came the tedious cover art negotiations, and then the marketing.... He had to focus on the craft of his words, before throwing it to the wolves... Well, _wolf._

"I rather admire your courage, Brother Mine," Sherlock suddenly added out of the blue, as Mycroft took his laptop back and began correcting a few paragraphs.

"My courage?"

"In making your protagonist a gay man. It does change your audience and demographics, but it is manageable. Rather bold, I might say."

"Thank you?" Why must Sherlock always sound like he was questioning his sanity?

"Don't. It's a lot easier to write a vanilla work, and keep your true self hidden than do what you are. I can see your soul on the pages, Myc, which worries me. If you remember anything about your time 'in the field' as you like to call it, then you'll remember that it's always more devastating when a piece of you is rejected by the world." Sherlock nodded, as he gathered up his things, preparing to leave the house.

Just as Mycroft showed him to the door, he turned, and placed his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "If it's any consolation, I hope your coffeeshop owner feels the same."

* * *

Greg watched every passing face on the street outside for a glimpse of Mike, worrying about whether or not he had inadvertently scared off his best patron with his inept flirting. 

Could he have found some other place to get his caffeine fix? 

Greg didn't even have a last name to go with his beautiful face, let alone an address, or phone number to call him. What if something happened to his gorgeous stranger? Would he ever get to apologise to his Mike?

A loud clap of thunder startled Greg out of his fretful brooding, and he had to be sure he rushed outside to make certain that the damn daily specials board was firmly under the awning. The idiot chalkboard loved it when he got drenched as he moved it back to dry land, and he could swear the thing moved itself on purpose, just to spite him.

Luckily it was still legible, this time.

Shaking off the droplets from his hair, Greg went to the window, looking out at the storm, which effectively dashed his faint hope of seeing Mike today.

Damn.

"Greg, there's been a weather alert posted for this area. We should probably close up. No one's here anyways." Sally came out of the stockroom, just having finished putting everything in it's correct place. Greg hated it, but he was forced to agree with her logic, even though it meant that he wouldn't see Mike today, if he had ever planned on showing up.

Nobody in their right mind would be out in this sudden waterfall.

They began to stack up the chairs, and Sally counted the money in the till, as Greg did a thorough sweep of the floor. Just as he finished, and Sally was putting the cash into the strong box, a bedraggled and very wet looking person knocked on the door, catching Greg by surprise.

As they let him inside, Greg almost jumped for joy.

_Mike._


	3. But it's Wednesday...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft appears in Greg's cafe soaked to the bone, and the irrational man seemed to believe that Gregory had a girlfriend...

"Jesus, Mike! What the bloody hell were you thinking?!" Greg exclaimed, as he rushed to the dripping man, who was visibly shivering from the cold water soaking his clothes.

"I-It's Wednesday...." He could hardly speak for his chattering teeth, and the poor excuse made Greg smile. He hadn't been rejected, then.

"Sally, can you go fetch me some blankets, and a heater while you're at it," Greg told his best friend, as he helped Mike out of his coat, shoes and socks. "Fuck, Mike. Did you even think about hypothermia? It's a bloody monsoon out there!"

"I was halfway here when the sky decided that it hates me. I would have been drenched just as badly had I turned around and gone home."

Greg sighed as Sally came back with all of the things needed to warm up this foolish writer. She'd even grabbed a few towels and some food from Greg's fridge. "Thanks, Sally. I've got this, why don't you head on home."

"Yeah." She gave Greg a long look that said plainly, 'Don't fuck this up for you two', to which he nodded.

Greg grabbed a towel and started to try and get Mike a bit drier, as best as he could, then wrapped his writer in the fluffy blanket, and sat him in his spot by the window. He plugged in the portable heater and placed it close to Mike, finally going to make his beautiful idiot something hot to drink.

"I'm sorry," Mike said as he returned with a small cup of coffee, and sat next to him. "I ruined your day."

Greg laughed, saying softly, "You really didn't. I was actually incredibly worried about you." He watched Mike take a sip of his coffee, and a small amount of color came back to the writer's cheeks. "Why weren't you here this morning?"

"My insufferable editor chose the exactly wrong day of the week to check on me," Mike grumbled, earning a good laugh out of Greg, who received a withering look in return. "What makes it worse is that he's my little brother," he added, taking another sip of his coffee and stretching out his feet towards the warmth of the heater.

"Family can be like that sometimes. My sister does the book keeping for this place, and she gives me shit every time I try and get rid of a receipt." Greg chuckled softly, imagining what Kat would be saying about the current situation.

"I'm sorry for keeping you here, Gregory. Sally seemed to think that it wouldn't be advisable." Mike looked at him like he was eager to hear what he thought about that.

"I'm a grown man, Mike. She knows that I can take care of myself, and wouldn't get into any sort of danger."

* * *

"Oh." Mycroft let the word hang as he contemplated the comment.

Did Greg think he could be a danger? Or was Sally the one who was afraid of him? He couldn't see what sort of threat a scrawny half drowned aspiring novelist could pose to the powerfully built Gregory Lestrade.

Greg seemed to be reluctant to break the silence between them as he stared out into the pouring rain. Mycroft longed to say something, but he couldn't find any topic that the coffeeshop owner might be interested in.

"So, Mike, what do you write about?" The other man asked out of the blue, and turned his molasses eyes back to Mycroft. "Is it nonfiction? Nah, I bet it's romances." He laughed quietly at his small joke, which made Mycroft's face soften.

"It's a spy novel. Though, of course, there is a bit of romance woven into the plot." Greg seemed surprised at the confession, and Mycroft smiled, adding, "I'm also considering dabbling in the science fiction and fantasy genre after this book. I always loved Tolkien as a teen."

Gregory seemed even more surprised by Mycroft now, and if he squinted, he seemed to almost be a bit intrigued. "Christ, really? My mum left me her first edition of _the Hobbit_ in her will. I have it sitting on my shelf, because I'm afraid of damaging it."

"You don't seem like the type to enjoy a sword and sorcery novel, Gregory. I must admit that I'm a bit shocked." Mycroft took another sip of his coffee, as he desperately struggled to seem a bit detached, like Greg was simply a coffeeshop owner that he visited occasionally... Instead of the man of his dreams.

"Are you kidding me? I love em! You really can't go wrong with elves and dragons and stuff."

"I agree."

* * *

Mycroft found it ridiculously easy to talk to Greg, like he'd been doing this for years. It was as natural as breathing. They debated the best sci-fi novel they'd ever read, before moving on to whether or not books should be turned into movies. Mycroft was on the 'highly opposed to it' side, as it left an essential element of the story out, and took away the particular voice of the author.

Gregory agreed that it took away a few pieces of the book when it transitioned to the screen, but he wasn't completely opposed. But only if the producers stuck with the storyline, and kept the main points in. According to him, some of the modern adaptations were rather enjoyable.

"So, what if you were offered say... ten million quid, plus royalties, to turn your spy novel into a movie. Would you take it?" Greg asked as he took a bite of one of the day old bagels. The storm outside had lessened significantly, almost enough for Mycroft to go home, but the two men seemed blissfully ignorant.

"Absolutely nothing on the planet could entice me into selling my novel. I will not have my Michel mangled by some arrogant, oversexed moron." Mycroft's face twisted at the thought, and he took a bite of the leftover Chinese food Gregory had reheated for him. "Besides, not many people would go to see it if I did, in my honest opinion."

"Why? Plenty of people like thrillers."

"Michel is gay. The romance is a homosexual one." Mycroft pointedly ate more of the noodles and beef, while Gregory seemed frozen in place, his bagel halfway to his mouth. "It's true."

"And - And you're okay with writing that? Gay stuff?"

 _"I'm_ gay, so yes."

Mycroft could tell that he shouldn't have been so blunt as Gregory hummed and tried to avoid his eyes. The ginger haired man's heart broke as he realized that Gregory was one of those men who were do uncomfortable with gay men that they were not able to handle it when someone says they are.

"Don't worry, Gregory. I shan't hit on you," Mycroft said, the words tasting bitter and wrong as they left his mouth. He mourned the fact that he had fallen for this man.

Gregory jumped, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, as he said, "I-I wasn't afraid of that, Mike. I'm, I suppose, bisexual myself. I don't really have a preference between men and women. I guess I was a bit surprised. You're so... open about it, you know?"

Mycroft's heart leapt back into place from its mangled spot on the floor hearing those words. _Gregory is bi._

He felt a little jolt though, when he remembered that Greg had a girlfriend. That fact slightly dampened the excitement Mycroft felt at hearing Gregory might not find him completely repulsive.

"My parents didn't take it all too well, but Kat - my sister - is incredibly supportive," Greg added. He seemed to relax at Mycroft's smile, and he returned it.

"My little brother and I never had the chance to tell our parents. By the time I was ready, they had gotten themselves killed in a plane crash."

"I'm sorry. That must've been hard." Greg's voice was rough, as if the pain Mycroft felt was his own.

"To tell you the truth, they were never really around even when they were alive. We were dragged out for the special occasions, Christmas, Easter, and perhaps Halloween, but otherwise we were forgotten about and discarded as soon as no one else was around." Mycroft's face betrayed his pain at the thoughts of when he was younger, and needing his Mum, but she was on the other side of the planet.

"Bastards."

Mycroft's shoulder moved up and down in a half hearted shrug. "You learn very quickly to make do with what you are given. It was a long time ago."

"Still, you deserve better. They're supposed to be your parents! For fuck's sake, every kid needs a Mum and Dad to turn to when they're scared."

"I had a series of nice nannies. They gave us the affection we needed. And I tried to be a parent to my brother."

"Not good enough. Every kid, no matter how difficult, deserves parents who love them. I would know, because I was a bratty little fucker, but my parents never gave up and handed me to someone else to raise me."

Mycroft's eyes grew moist at Gregory's strident defense of a small, scared little Mycroft, who wanted his parents love more than anything for himself and Sherlock.

"Thank you, Gregory."

* * *

"Mike, have you ever been in love?" Greg asked the brilliant man sitting next to him, dimly realizing that it had stopped raining. He desperately hoped Mike hadn't noticed yet, or if he had, that he was enjoying his company. He didn't want him to leave yet, but it was almost eight...

"No, Gregory. I thought I was, once. But I was just infatuated with him," Mike whispered brokenly, and he wrapped the blankets tighter around himself. "He was handsome, but incredibly cruel."

Greg's heart broke as Mike seemed to shrink in on himself a little. "I feel like hardly anything in your life has gone perfectly smoothly for you. And it kills me to say it, cause I know it's true." Greg looked up from his phone, giving Sally a short text that everything was going fine. That woman worried like an old hen about him, but he wouldn't trade her for the world.

"Have you ever? Been in love, that is," Mike asked, also discreetly sending a text to someone. "I'm merely curious."

"Nah. Never. I just haven't found the right person yet, I guess. Sally understands."

"I - I'd better get home. It's getting rather late in the evening." Mike seemed to be uncomfortable as he shrugged off the blankets and put his socks and shoes back on. "Thank you for letting me wait out the storm," he added in a strangely stiff and formal voice.

As Mike had his coat in one hand, and the other one on the doorknob, Greg stopped him. "Mike, I just want you to know that I've fancied you for quite some time and I don't want you to run away."

* * *

Mycroft jumped, wheeling around to face Gregory. "I-I ...."

He was cut off by the soft, insistent feeling of Gregory's mouth on his own. A small whimper escaped him, when Greg tried to pull away, and Mycroft's hands pulled him back into the kiss, carding into the thick silvering locks he loved. Greg's eager tounge requested entrance, and Mycroft opened his mouth, stroking it with his own. He lost himself in the moment, for now, Gregory was his, as long as Mycroft's momentary lapse of judgement lasted.

Mycroft pressed himself to Greg, and felt the firm planes of Gregory's body on every inch of him. The shorter man slotted his hips with his, the growing erection in his pants finding friction against Mycroft's own evident arousal.

God, the sounds escaping him as Gregory began to roll his hips into him were the exact opposite of attractive.

Mycroft tenatively ground against his temporary lover, letting out a throaty moan. "G-Greg..."

"Mmhnm, _fuck,_ Mi-ike."

Mike. Not Mycroft. Not his. He probably just wanted a good screw, and Mycroft was the closest warm body.

And Gregory Lestrade had a girlfriend. It didn't matter that he didn't love her, he still was with her, and Mycroft feared she might love him.

Mycroft tore himself away from the man he had sworn not to fall for, finding he'd already torn his beating heart from his chest and cast it at his feet. "No."

"Mike, what's wrong? I thought -"

"I'll not be your _mistress,_ Gregory Lestrade. So forget it."

* * *

**_What!?!_ **

Mike thought he was seeing someone?! Who?

And why the actual fuck had he seemed completely into it, if he'd thought he was in a relationship?

None of this made any sense to Greg, and when his Mike didn't come back to the cafe on Friday as he usually did, he knew that he'd fucked up royally. Officially blown the chance of being with an amazing man who was so incredible... Typical. The only time he'd actually gone and _fallen in love,_ the man who he'd fallen for seemed to think he was capable of cheating!

Greg Lestrade, the man who was probably the least likely person on the planet to even think about someone else while he was in a relationship was accused of being a cheat.

Fucking perfect.


	4. Finally, Mycroft Sees What's in Front of His Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as the title says, our novelist realizes exactly how wrong he'd been in assuming anything about his Gregory.

Mycroft mourned.

Truly _mourned_ the fact that Gregory could be a man who would cheat on his partner. Mycroft had gone and let him into the one place that no one else had been allowed in years. The result: Gregory had used Mycroft, betrayed him. In fact, he probably saw it as a simple fling, something that you would never take seriously.

He might not even have been truly bisexual, and was just experimenting with him. Totally bored with women? Why not try sleeping with men? Something shiny and new!

But Mycroft was never going to be something shiny and new for someone to amuse themselves with. Mycroft was something old and much mended. Delicate. Fragile. His heart wasn't strong enough to handle a cutting loss this deep. His mind couldn't fathom it.

He ended up losing sleep. He found that couldn't eat as often as he should have, because he simply found everything he had unappetizing. His life was an emotional trainwreck from the moment Greg had kissed him.

Mycroft gave up on finishing his novel, unable to find it inside himself to continue with the relationship between his Michel, and the surrogate Greg, named George. In the first hour of him being home, he had contemplated killing off George three times. Unable to bring himself to do so, he stopped writing completely, relegating the file to a folder marked, _Do Not Open! No Excuses!_

Sherlock called in again, so Mycroft put on a good impression of cheerfulness, and lied about the progress that he had been making on his book. He gave his brother an expected completion date of two months, maximum.

Eventually the stuffy house became claustrophobic, and Mycroft changed from the pyjamas that he had been wearing on rotation for the past three days, and took a walk to the town. Idly he wandered around the small village early in the morning, and found himself walking behind a lovely young couple. One of the women looked eerily similar to...

_No._

The woman who he had recognized was without a doubt, Sally Donovan, the woman who he had assumed was Greg's girlfriend. The amber light from the rising sun glinted off of the rings adorning the couple's hands, and Sally exchanged a tender kiss with her wife, before entering the cafe, and putting the sign to Open.

_Mycroft Holmes you sodding fool._

How on _Earth_ could he have mistaken close friendship for romantic affection? He'd been an absolute Goldfish, just as he had accused the rest of the world of being. That he had ever thought a kind and generous man such as his Gregory could ever have cheated... It made him ashamed to claim himself a genius, that he had been so blind.

Mycroft numbly followed her into the cafe, taking off his scarf that he'd probably not needed, and approached the long counter. His Greg had his back to the rest of the room, while he fiddled with a machine. Clearing his throat, and ringing the bell, Mycroft waited to be noticed by his handsome cafe owner.

"Just a second," Greg muttered, giving the machine a good smack for his trouble, and earning a gurgling hiss in return as the coffee began to brew. He turned, while he wiped his hands on his apron, freezing at the sight of who was in his cafe. "Mike, God, umm, what, why... I'm sorry...."

Greg's helpless eyes pleaded with Mycroft, who murmured softly, " _I'm_ sorry, Gregory. I'd thought, by the way you acted, that you were seeing Sally. I was obviously mistaken, I know now. Can you ever forgive me?"

* * *

"God... I would never cheat, Mike. My ex-wife, Cindy, she did, and - and that's why I ended it." Greg smiled in amazement at his Mike's simple misunderstanding. His geeky little writer had actually believed that he would do something so outrageous. "I really like you, Mike, and maybe, maybe we can go to dinner sometime? Sometime soon?"

"I-I would like that very much, Gregory." Mike blushed, as he twisted his scarf in his hands, looking nervous but eager. "Is Thursday acceptable?"

"Absolutely."

Greg couldn't believe it. His Mike had actually thought Sally was his girlfriend. _That_ was why he'd been pushed away. _That_ was the reason why his Mike had run, and made both of them utterly miserable in doing it. Mike was an absolute fool, but Greg was determined to make sure that he was _his_ fool.

Mike stayed at the cafe, even though it was not one of his usual days, and he didn't even have his laptop with him. He simply sat in his spot, sipping on his black coffee, and kept stealing glances Greg's way every now and then. Greg noticed every time, and looked up with a broad grin on his face.

When he took a break from work to eat his lunch, Mike casually indicated that he was welcome to sit with him at the small two person table.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Greg gave him a small, soft smile, taking a bite of his salami sandwich, and chewing pensively.

"I'm so glad you came to your senses, Mike. I know that I'd been miserable for days now, and I can tell you were too."

Mike sighed, one hand wrapped around the coffee mug, and the other elbow propped up on the table, his head resting on his hand. "I truly was, Gregory. Devastated, in fact, by the simple thought that you were capable of such a horrible thing."

Greg smiled, putting down his sandwich and taking Mike's hand off of the coffee mug to hold in both of his own. He smiled, soft warm and tender, at the man who made him feel like he was worth something. "I'd never hurt you, Mike. I could never hurt a beautifully ginger hair on your silly little head."

"I know that now, Gregory. I... I've been hurt by a lover before, and I assumed the worst. Please, can you ever forgive me?" Mycroft's face was so fearful of his reaction, thinking in all likelihood that Greg wouldn't want him after he'd been pushed away.

"I already have, honey. I know that you wouldn't do that on purpose."

"Thank you, darling."

* * *

Mycroft returned home later that day, and immediately set to putting his house back in order. He had been regrettably lax in cleaning up after himself, leaving dishes undone, and had not been bothering to get dressed until the urge to leave the house struck him. 

He'd been _wallowing._

The CEO turned writer had just finished putting the downstairs to rights, which had contained the worst of the mess, when a soft scratching noise came from the front door. He was instantly on alert, thinking that someone was breaking in to his house. Mycroft unrolled his sleeves, covering the myriad of pale scars that interrupted the pattern of light freckles on his skin, and his behind the door with an umbrella as a weapon.

The handle turned quietly, and Mycroft sighed in relief, when he saw that it was Sherlock breaking in. "I regret ever teaching you how to pick locks, Brother Mine." He growled, as he put his umbrella back in it's stand. 

But as soon as he saw his brother's pale, drawn face, he knew that this wasn't a casual break in. Sherlock had sensed that he was faking the good mood when he had called him yesterday, and now he was fearful of his brother's safety. Sherlock had long been aware of Mycroft's habits, and his black moods, as they called them.

"I didn't, Sherlock. There was truly no need for a check." He sighed, lifting his jumper and pulling his trousers down a fraction to show him his hips, and then rolled his sleeves up to expose his arms. 

"I know you, Mycroft, and I will always worry about you when you sound so cheerful. I swear, if that man hurt you in any way, I will..." Sherlock pulled his brother into a fierce hug, nearly crushing the life out of him. "Fuck men. You'll always have me, My. Always."

Mycroft chuckled weakly as he was released, and gave the younger man a tired grin. "I know, Sherl. It wasn't him, it was my slow brain playing tricks on my heart. I'd... misread the situation between Gregory and a friend of his as a romantic relationship. When he made an advance on me, even going as far as giving me a kiss, I... reacted badly. It was a hopeless misunderstanding, and we resolved it. We're going to dinner on Thursday."

Sherlock sighed softly, shaking his head. "I don't want to see you hurt, brother dear. Your loss would break my heart."

"As yours would break mine. I will be careful with my heart, though I fear it might be a trifle too late for me to lock it away once more." Mycroft smiled at him, the little brother who was now the one who was overly protective of him. "Come now, what of you and Doctor Watson? Have you finally stopped dancing around each other as if you were still unsure of the other's interest? Or do I need to knock some sense into the both of you?" 

Sherlock's expression of concern morphed into a look mimicking the face of a cat who had eaten the canary, and still had feathers in its whiskers. "I am pleased to inform you that we had our first date a few weeks ago. John Watson is a very... passionate man, and I quite enjoy his company. Almost too much."

"Well, all that I can ask is that you refrain from jeopardizing our business with your affair. John is a great GM, and if I have to, I would rather lose an editor than the man who runs the company. Be cautious."

Sherlock gave him a small self satisfied smirk, as he quipped, "We shall see."

* * *

Greg kicked off his shoes at the end of a long day, blissfully happy that everything was resolved between Mike and himself. He couldn't put into words how much he had missed his favorite writer's hands flying over the keys at a speed which always amazed him. Mike was by far the best most sincere man he had ever had the honor of being with. 

Greg's mobile buzzed at that moment, and he quickly glanced at the caller ID, recognizing his sister's number. "Hey, Kitty Kat. What's up?"

"I just want to run over the numbers with you for a few minutes, just so you know what's all going on."

Greg chuckled softly, hearing his two nieces and nephew arguing with each other in the background over exactly whose turn it was to play with the new puppy. "How's the kids, Kat? Does Anna still have that cough?"

"No, thank God, it was just a small bug. And little Greg is loving the train set of yours that you let him have. Thanks for that, you really saved his birthday."

"I'll wire you some money, Kat, as soon as possible. I owe you for all your help. And being there when I got home. Mum and Dad ever ask about me?"

"You know them, if they ever do anything wrong, they'll ignore the problem until it goes away. I wouldn't expect anything from the two of them for a few more years. You've got me, though, always."

"Thanks, sis. So how's it looking? Do I have any problems that I need to take care of? Any money pits I need to dump?" Greg reclined on the couch, settling down into the worn out cushions with a sigh.

"Honestly, you don't have any problems, so far. With the refurbishing of the storefront, and better coverage with ads, you can maybe get a few full pay employees now. At least give Sally a raise...."

"Yeah, I'm going to. You're the best, Kathy. Hey, I just want to let you know that I've finally met someone. His name's Mike, and he's a writer." 

"Well, details! You can't tell me anything else about him?!"

"God, erm, his hands are so beautiful, I know that that's a bit weird to say... And I just love his voice, he's rather posh, totally public school, but he seems to think that I'm worth something to him..."

"Greg, how many times do I have to tell you, you're a terrific catch. Don't listen to what that bitch said about you. You're handsome, a lot of people are going for the silver fox look, and above all, you're the sweetest guy I know."

"I'll try to make myself believe that. I think I might be falling for Mike though. He's just... Perfect." Greg yawned, reaching for his glass of water, and drank a few gulps before saying goodbye. He forced himself to look in the long mirror in his bathroom, trying to see what other people saw.

He supposed that his hair was rather dashing, the way it was sort of a salt and pepper look, and he'd always liked how his eyes still seemed youthful. As he kept trying to see what he really looked like to people, he found more things to like.

The only thing that really bothered him was the long scar on his side that was where he got hit by shrapnel back in Afghanistan. Sally had her own scars, burns to her back from the IED that sent them both home.

Maybe Mike would find it a bit sexy, like a battle scar.

At least Greg hoped he would, whenever he was allowed show his insecure writer how devastatingly gorgeous he was.


	5. First Date, and A Visit To Baskerville Manor.

Mycroft hesitated over what on _Earth_ he should wear to his first date with Gregory, Thursday night. Should he go for the deep blue tie, or not wear a tie at all? Go casual, and wear the cashmere jumper and chinos? Or go fancy, and wear his bespoke suit, with his patent leather oxfords?

He eventually decided on a happy medium, and put on a light linen suit, a pale blue shirt, and comfortable shoes. He was finally ready for the finishing touch, namely his father's gold and leather wrist watch. He made sure he grabbed his phone and wallet, placing them both in his pocket before walking out the door to the wide lane that lead to Main Street.

After that, it was a short ten minute walk down the street to Gregory's shop, and Mycroft took his time with it, admiring the faint traces of gold touching the leaves of the trees as the weather turned colder. A large flock of starlings wheeled in the sky, on their way South, to spend the winter months in warmer climates.

Gregory waited outside the café, locking up for the night, when Mycroft had finally gotten to him. "Hello, Gregory," he said softly, and gave him a small smile. Greg seemed just as pleased as Mycroft to be going on their first official date.

"Hey, Mike! I hope you are hungry, I'd gotten us reservations at Vincenzo's. You look terrific, by the way." Gregory leaned up, and placed a swift kiss to Mycroft's cheek, and smiled when he leaned into the contact.

"Thank you, Gregory. So do you." Mycroft bit his lip, loving the new look that Greg had put on, a far cry from the simple tshirts and jeans that he usually wore to work in the café. "Shall we go?"

"I'm ready whenever you are, posh boy."

* * *

"Wait, you're telling me that your brother, your brother actually had the nerve to tell his English teacher that they were an idiot?!" Greg laughed over the expensive meal, and took a sip of his wine, still chuckling.

"He was quite the handful," Mike added, as he took a bite of his lasagna.

"God, one time my sister told a teacher's assistant to fuck off, if it makes you feel any better." Greg smiled, as he and Mike finished the food. He apprehensively took the check, but Mike grabbed it from him with a gentle smile.

"I've got this. I have money to spare." Mike slipped a note into the folder, and handed it to the waitress, saying, "Keep the change."

How rich was his favorite writer, if he could simply pay for the dinner, and not even think about what it cost? Greg had a lot of questions about him, but he knew that Mike was different than 'Cindy'. He was sure of it.

* * *

As the days passed, Mycroft and Gregory spent as much time as they possibly could together, though Mycroft was exceedingly careful with names and information about himself that he gave Gregory, so that he could be his little author for a while longer. He couldn't bear the thought of Greg finding out what he was, and then treating him so much differently.

Mycroft knew that the conversation needed to be had, but as long as Greg continued to look at him like he was the only person who had his attention, Mycroft would be his Mike. Mycroft wished he could stay here for the rest of his life, and be Mike, be the simple author Gregory's heart wanted, but he would have to tell him eventually.

Not yet, but soon.

* * *

Mycroft's heart had been warring with his head for the past week, but he had finally made the decision to invite his Gregory over to Baskerville Manor. He knew it would change things between them, but he was not able to delay any longer. Mycroft wanted to make him feel like he was the amazing man he saw. 

He'd planned a relaxing evening with a simple home cooked meal, by Myc's own hands, no less, and then they would unwind in his study before a nice fire, with a twenty year old whisky.

As he pulled out the ingredients for dinner, Mycroft pressed the button on his phone that would connect him to his favorite café owner. He hoped to catch him as he closed up the shop, and then convince him to head here, instead of going home.

"Hullo, love. I was just thinking about you, in fact." Gregory's voice seemed tired, strained from the long day, and Mycroft wanted to take him in his arms and rub the stresses of the day away. "What're you doing?"

"I was wondering if you would want to come over to my home tonight, Gregory. I'm planning on cooking dinner for you, if you have any time... If not I can save the leftovers for lunch tomorrow. I miss you, that's all." Mycroft chewed on the inside of his cheek, as he stirred the pasta sauce. He added to his shopping list for Clarice a loaf of French bread, so he could make Gregory some bruschetta. It wasn't a coincidence that the maid Sherlock had hired came on Monday Wednesday and Friday. 

"I'd love to see where you live, Mike, just give me a minute to clean up. What's your address, I can be there in about ten minutes..."

"I live in Baskerville Manor, for the moment. My editor had arranged for me to stay here until I get my novel finished. Brother Dear was growing frustrated with how many times I had pushed back the deadline." Mycroft hated the half truths he continued to tell his love. But just a little bit longer.

"Damn, you're staying in _Baskerville?_ That place is so damn posh, I should have known that you would be there. I'd better get my fancy clothes on, just to fit in. What's it like, living in a mansion?"

"I hate it. It's hideous. So stuffy and just horribly decorated." Mycroft listened to Gregory's wonderful laugh as he cooked the pasta, and he wished he was there already, knowing Gregory could make it feel like a home.

"Alright, Mr I'm-too-good-for-a-bloody-mansion, I'll be there in about ten minutes. Keep the food hot for me."

"I will, Gregory. Hurry, I missed you today."

"Locking up the café now. Hold on."

 _"Gregory,_ I _miss_ you."

 _"Mike,_ I will be there _soon."_

Suddenly there was a knock on the front door, and the line went dead, letting Mycroft know his lover was here. He couldn't find the patience to let him wait, so he turned down the heat on his meal, and rushed to get the door. "Gregory." Mycroft enveloped his wonderful man in a hug, burying his face in his shoulder and smelling the ever present scent of good coffee.

"Hey, Mike." Gregory kissed his boyfriend on the neck, and wrapped his arms around the taller man. "I missed you too, baby, just so you know."

"Oh. God. Where are my manners? Come on in, please." Mycroft released him, stepping aside for his Greg to enter the house. He kept ahold of his hand as he led him to the kitchen, and told him to sit down at the breakfast bar, while he finished cooking.

* * *

"Wow," Greg said, as Mike led him through the posh mansion that he was living in for the time being. "How the hell do you find your way around? This place is huge..."

"And as I said before, horribly decorated. You can't forget that," Mike quipped, as he led him down a wood paneled hallway with paintings of people who were probably long since dead. He wasn't wrong about the decor, it was a touch outdated.

"Dinner was really delicious, Mike. You have a way with taking a simple pasta and elevating it to Michelin star quality. I wish you could cook for me every night."

Mike smiled, when he opened a door to a different room in the house. It was pretty dark, but Greg could see the outlines of bookshelves covering the walls, and a large roll top desk in the corner, next to a large fireplace. The room had the feel of a study straight from s vintage detective film.

"Have a seat, and I will set up the fire." Greg obliged, settling into the plush armchair, and in a few moments his boyfriend had a crackling log fire going, the cheery snaps and pops filling the room with the unique music of a relaxing fall evening.

Greg stretched out his feet towards the warmth, murmuring, "I really could get used to this. If you're not careful, you'll find a very spoiled cafe owner on your hands, Mike," he warned his lover, as he was handed a glass of single malt whisky.

_Damn, that is good._

It was by far the best drink he had been given in years, probably ever. Smoky, and slightly sweet, with the sharpness of a good liquor. 

"You deserve it, Gregory. I want you to be happy, with life, and with me..." Mike's position in the adjacent chair mirrored his own, a glass of whisky in one hand and his feet stretched out to the fire, and he murmured, "I would love to have you over more often, if you wish. This large house feels empty without someone else in it." Mike looked over, an ocean of hope flowing from his blue grey eyes.

Greg softly grinned, shifting his glass to the other hand and reaching across the small gap between the two chairs. "I'd like that," he whispered, as he interlaced his fingers with Mike's.

"As would I."

* * *

Mycroft sat with his Gregory in a companionable silence, broken every now and then by a soft murmured comment on what they had done while they were apart. The taller man snuck glances at his love out of the corner of his eye, as they drank the expensive whisky. Mycroft wished he was an artist, so that he could capture the magnificent scene before him in oils.

Gregory's tanned skin had taken on a rosy glow from a combination of good alcohol and a warm fire, and his silvering hair glinted in the flickering firelight. His eyes reflected the dancing flames like black mirrors, as he sipped the whisky that swirled in the crystal glass, and the ghost of a smile graced the edges of his mouth, like the thoughts going through his mind were giving him the small happinesses he deserved. It was the most beautiful sight Mycroft had ever seen.

"Gregory?" he whispered, not wanting to break the peace.

"Yeah, Mike?" Gregory turned his head, and smiled sleepily, eyes half closed with the effects of good company and even better whisky.

"I-I think I might have fallen for you," Mycroft murmured, his thumb brushing back and forth over the callused skin of Gregory's hand. He smiled tenatively, adding, "I hope that is acceptable."

Greg chuckled. "I think that I've fallen for you too, Mike." He leaned across the small space between them and stole a tender kiss. "Mmm, yeah. I've fallen hard, posh boy."

"I'm glad," Mycroft replied, as Gregory yawned, setting down his glass to rub his eyes. "Would you like to stay? I can make up a spare bedroom for you, if you want to..."

"What, can't I sleep in your bed, or are you a snorer?" Greg laughed, then yawned a second time.

"You can certainly sleep with me tonight. I promise not to wake you with my snores. It's not too much." Mycroft stood, placing his empty glass on the table, and pulled his lover to his feet, helping him to bed.

He found a spare set of pyjamas for Gregory, and went to the bathroom to change into his own, ensuring that Gregory wouldn't see his disfigured body beneath the carefully selected clothes.

Mycroft looked into the full-length mirror, and his face twisted with disapproval at the sight that greeted him. Covering his forearms, calves, and hips, an uncountable number of pale scars crisscrossed over the skin, completely obscuring the light pattern of freckles in some places. Mycroft's breath came out shakily, and he twisted his neck, to see the thin white line running along the underside of his jaw, stretching from beneath his left ear all the way to the corner of his jaw below his right. It was usually unnoticeable, unless Mycroft did what he was now, lifting his chin almost all the way, so no one saw the mark that was left by the coarse rope.

Mycroft shuddered at the memory of his despairing attempt, and quickly dressed himself in the soft cotton pyjamas that completely concealed his skin, covering his ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want everyone to know, that self harm is NOT okay. It's something that I learned the hard way, and the person who is hurt most is the ones that love you.
> 
> If you ever feel like doing something to cause yourself injury, or God forbid, kill yourself, PLEASE, tell someone, and let them know that you have these thoughts. Therapy can help, and don't ever take your own life. It's a very permanent solution to a temporary problem, and I don't want anyone to go through that.
> 
> Please, don't suffer alone, because your life doesn't belong to you, it belongs to the people who love you.


	6. Greg Learns... Mike Isn't the Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mike have sex....
> 
> Greg learns the secret that has been kept, and nothing is going to be the same again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me after reading this, I swear there is a point to the pain.....

Greg woke up to the insistent buzzing of his alarm, and rolled over. Directly on to something warm and firm that let out a loud noise of protest as Greg squashed it under his body. "...The fuck?" Greg rolled back to the other side of the bed, off of the large object in bed with him, and remembered that this wasn't his bed, and that was _Mike_ that he'd crushed beneath him.

"Greg, are you alright?" A sleepy Mike asked, as he picked his head up from the pillow. His face was adorably pillow creased, and dazed.

"Yeah, baby, sorry for crushing you... Bet that wasn't the best way to wake up..." Greg grinned sheepishly, and then Mike smiled beautifully, as a warm, fuzzy feeling grew in Greg's chest when he remembered their slightly drunken confession. "I love you."

"I love you too, Gregory. Care for breakfast? It's the least I could do, before you leave for the café." Mike traced the creases on Greg's face from the ridiculously silky sheets, and bit his lip. "I'm going to get dressed, and then I'll meet you in the kitchen. There's a spare toothbrush in the cabinet, and toothpaste on the counter. Feel free to use anything else you might need."

Mike got up and walked away, into the large closet on the other side of the room, shutting the door behind him. Greg sighed softly, as he picked up his clothes, and went to the bathroom, finding the _monogrammed_ toothbrush and fancy toothpaste in the cabinet. Could you get any more posh, without being the Queen herself? 

Mike entered the bathroom, just as Greg started to scrub his teeth with the bloody charcoal toothpaste, and the lovely writer smiled. "I like seeing you in my bathroom, Gregory. It makes you seem human, and not just a dream." He plucked his toothbrush out of the holder, and scrubbed his own teeth, while Greg watched. Mike took a lot longer than expected, and Greg was finished with the task as Mike looked away, giving him privacy to change.

"Mike, I'm surprised you use an electric razor. Fancy bloke like you, I was expecting a straight blade and foam, hot towel treatment, even." Greg chuckled as Mike rapidly finished, not giving him any time to admire his long, pale neck.

"I simply prefer this, there's less of a chance to cause injury." Mike looked off, as he suggested breakfast, and Greg became a bit hesitant, not sure of what caused it.

He was going to find out, though. It just needed to be on Mike's terms.

* * *

Mycroft pulled out his laptop, intending to go ahead and write the last chapter of his novel, now that the rest had been fully edited. He knew that Sherlock was expecting a draft of the work in a month, but he was going to take his time with the last part, and convey the happily ever after he wanted with Gregory, just in the form of the novel...

> And Michel knew that no matter what, his quaint little café was the home he would always return to. No matter where he might be sent, no matter what his job entailed, his café, and his George would be there to pick up the pieces, and heal his sorrows. George would always be in his heart, giving him the strength and courage to do what was needed in the line of duty. Always and forever, their words of love to one another, were never more true, as he slipped the plain gold band on his George's finger.
> 
> The End.

Mycroft scrolled through his work, going through the process of the spell check, and the grammar check, before putting the laptop aside. He scrubbed his face, and stretched, working out the kink in his neck, before clicking save on the documents.

He was filled with a small sense of loss, as he stared at the attachment added to the latest email to Sherlock. The realization that once he'd sent the email, he'd have to go back to the real world, leaving his Gregory, it rocked him to the core.

So he closed his laptop with a definitive snap, and left the house that had somehow become his home, going to Gregory's wonderful café and picking up a bouquet of roses on the way. Of course, as he entered the shop, Greg was busy with a customer, and he had his back to the main room. No matter, Mycroft could wait.

Finally, Gregory turned, and his face split into a wide smile, as Mycroft stepped up to the counter. "What's the occasion, Mike?" He asked, as he turned to fill the vase he kept for just such an occurrence. Mycroft sighed, handing over the roses, and leaning on the display of baked goods.

"I finished my novel," Mycroft murmured dejectedly. He watched the face of his lover turn from simply being happy he was there, to black despair, as he realized what that simple little statement meant. "I haven't sent it yet, but I have a deadline for submission in three weeks. I'm sorry, Gregory. I'll stay as long as I can. You have my heart, I won't lose you that easily." His eyes scanned the rows of pastries beneath the glass, and asked for an eclair, when Gregory handed him his coffee.

"Breaking the unnecessary diet, gorgeous?" Gregory tried to joke, but Mycroft knew he was as miserable as it got.

"Comfort food. Drowning my sorrows in puff pastry and chocolate." Mycroft stuffed the fancy donut in his mouth, and twenty pounds in the tip jar.

"I love you, darling," he mumbled around the eclair, and went to his table. He tried to get himself in order, tried to go back to the way he was before Gregory came blazing into his life like a comet, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't erase Gregory's tender love from his heart.

* * *

The day passed slowly, as Greg attempted everything he could to cheer up his writer, and slowly it worked. By the end of the day, Mike was grinning at him suggestively across the café, making him fight off the longing to pin him against the wall and snog the posh man senseless.

He wanted to make the last few days he had worth every moment...

As soon as he sent Sally home for the night, when it became abundantly clear that no one else was coming in, Mike stood to leave, even as his eyes begged to be allowed to stay. Greg sensed the changing atmosphere, when he locked the door, and Mike stalked up to him, asking, "Do you intend to keep me prisoner, Gregory?" He ghosted his hands up Greg's sides, though the shorter man noted that they had a small tremor in them. "I must inform you that I am an experienced lock pick."

Oh God, the things that Mike could do with just his voice.

"Maybe. Though I had wished you would stay on your own."

"I would prefer to do this on a bed..."

"I live upstairs." Greg turned to face his nervous lover, and connected their lips, pouring his love for the posh git into the kiss. "If this is headed where I think it is... Are you clean?"

"Yes, you?" Mike rolled his hips into Greg's, letting out a little gasp as his hard cock found friction. 

"Of course."

They stumbled up the stairs, kissing as if their lives depended on their mouths being connected, and Greg noticed when Mike turned off the lights, leaving the only source of light the dim glow of the streetlight outside. He assumed that his lover's body image issue was to blame, and he knew he would fix it. Mike was worth the world to him.

Nimble fingers made short work of Greg's button up and trousers, as he tugged Mike's jumper and vest off of him. Greg caught the quick gasp in his mouth, as his eager writer felt cold air hit his torso. Greg wasn't going to waste time, however, and he pulled Mike into him, slipping his hand beneath that trim, expensive waistband. Greg's straining erection left a small wet spot on his pants, as Mike bucked his hips into his loving touch.

"G-Greg..." Mike stammered out, as the man in question divested him of the last articles of clothing. "I want you inside me... Please."

Greg kissed along Mike's jaw, feeling a slight ridge beneath his love's ear, but paid no attention to it, as Mike, his sweet Mike begged for his cock. He stepped out of his pants, and quickly pulled his half empty tube of lubricant from his nightstand, settling on top of his writer.

"Are you sure?" Greg asked, as his slick fingers circled Mike's entrance, earning a desperate plead of 'fuck me, Gregory, before I combust'.

He made sure his Mike was fully stretched, before slowly easing himself into the warm tightness with a groan of pleasure. "Jesus, Mike. Fuck."

The momentum quickly built, once Mike accustomed himself to the stretch, and soft gasp, moans and cursing accompanied the obscene sound of skin hitting skin. Greg braced himself on his headboard, taking Mike's leaking cock in his hand, pumping it in time with his thrusts. "Fuck Mike."

"Call me Mycroft, Gregory, please... Oh good lord, _yes."_

Greg slowly felt his passion fading, as he realized he had been lied to by the only person he'd come to trust with his heart. "Why, fuck, tell me it's a kink, and not your name." He slowed down his hips, and took his face from the curve of 'Mike's' neck to look at his expression. "Tell me your name is not Mycroft bloody Holmes. Tell me you weren't lying to me."

"Gregory, please, I love you so much, I can't - I just..." Mycroft's face was the only answer that Greg needed, as he completely slipped out of the arrogant asshole, as pushed away.

At least he hadn't _married_ this twat before he'd been told. Greg stumbled to the bathroom, slamming the door, and sobbing. "Get out. I never... I never want to see you again, _Mycroft._ " He choked on his words, even as his former lover tried to explain. "Get the fuck out!"

Greg heaved with his agony, as the world tumbled about his ears. He'd thought this one was different. He'd thought he was special.

This was the only time he'd actually gone and fallen for someone so hard, but he knew that there was not an ice cube's chance in hell that Mycroft could love him. He'd read the press on him, he knew that Mycroft Holmes could never love a simple café owner like him.

Mycroft Holmes was the second wealthiest man in London, what could appeal to him about a man so strapped for cash that he had to live in the flat above his shop, and couldn't even afford to eat much more than the day old bagels and pastries?

Greg was a casual screw, nothing more. A scrap of mediocrity for Mycroft bloody Holmes' amusement.

...

Greg didn't know how absolutely wrong he could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, please don't kill me.
> 
> Greg's ex wife was under a false name the entire time he knew her, and it wasn't until her real husband showed up, that he found it out. He has his own ghosts, and what Mycroft did just brought it all back.
> 
> There is going to be a happily ever after, I swear....


	7. Reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long for me to get this out, I've been having a lot of family drama, and unfortunately I have made my way into the Supernatural rabbit hole...
> 
> I'm going to finish this and my other in progress works, but I have very few additional plans in the Sherlock fandoms.
> 
> But hey, if you like spn, check out the new works in a week or so...

Greg hadn't seen or heard from Mycroft in twenty four hours, and he'd never felt worse. His heart ached at the thought of who his Mike was, and what he'd done to him. Why the bloody hell couldn't he ever drop a hint that he was Mycroft Holmes, CEO of the biggest publishing company in the United Kingdom? Not to mention that Mycroft had seemed to be so different than what people said about him. He cared about Greg, or he seemed to at least.

Nothing could take away from the fact that Mike was fiction. Greg couldn't handle another heartbreak like what had happened with 'Cindy'. It felt like there was a gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to beat.

Another customer came to the counter in the café, and had a peculiarly hostile expression, as Greg asked his order.

"You can tell me why my brother hasn't answered any of my texts or calls, _Greg._ What the fuck did you _do?"_ The stranger glared at him with eyes similar to Mycroft's, and other things that Greg saw told him that this was Sherlock.

Greg sighed miserably. "We broke up. He's been lying to me since the day we met. I can't tell you how much that hurt. Why would I be with someone who wouldn't even tell me their name?" 

Sherlock's right hook came out of nowhere, and Greg stumbled backwards, cursing. "The fuck was that for?"

"Because you killed my brother. Didn't you see the scar on his neck? Mycroft's heart is broken, and now he has most likely tried an easier suicide than the last time." 

Greg's knees buckled beneath him, as he realized his Mike was not as confident as he'd seemed, he was... His Mike had tried to hang himself. That small ridge was the mark of a noose. "I-I didn't know, fuck, Mike." No, please God, no. He needed to tell him that he had been a complete idiot. Mike was _scared_ to show him how much he loved him, and to show him his other self. Telling Greg his name was a sign of confidence in their feelings towards each other...

"I know you didn't know the hell my brother's been through, but that's not a good enough excuse. What you did was infinitely worse than the beatings Richard gave him. It's worse than when that bastard of an ex tied him up and _raped_ him." Sherlock stalked behind the counter, and grabbed Greg by the collar, dragging him out to a waiting town car. He shoved him against the door, and growled, "Get in."

Greg had tears pouring down his face as he tried to imagine how anyone could hurt his Mycroft. He was so gentle and kind... He dimly heard Sherlock dial a number on his mobile, and spit out, "John, code black. Baskerville. Now."

The car was not really necessary to get to Mycroft, but Greg knew that every moment was essential. He couldn't believe that Mike was the real Mycroft, and he'd been so cruel...

The cafe owner was shaking inside as Sherlock left the car, pulling a key from his pocket and looking back, his eyes cold. Greg followed him into the dark house, which looked like a tornado had gone through. Mycroft's patent leather shoes were lying on the stairs, and Greg had a feeling that the man he loved was in the bedroom, though whether he was unharmed was a whole different thing.

The two men stopped at the door that was still slightly ajar, soft sobbing sounds coming from within. "You're lucky. If my brother was dead, you would be too." Sherlock gently eased the door open, motioning for Greg to go ahead and fix this mess.

Gregory Lestrade gulped; taking a breath, he went to the bed, which had its white sheets stained with dried blood. Mycroft slept fitfully upon it, his body tangled in the covers, whimpering, "Gregory..."

The man who had been the cause of the mutual heartbreak, was silently crying, as he whispered, "Mike. Mycroft..." He brushed one of the ginger curls from Mycroft's face and gently woke him, calling him back to the land of the living.

Mike trembled, as he realized Greg could see him fully for the first time. See how much of a wreck he was. He didn't open his eyes, as he sobbed. "G-Gregory... I-I..."

Gregory disentangled his Mike from the sheets, and got his first look at the scars covering his love's body. Those were the reason why he'd turned out the lights as they went into the bedroom. It _was_ an image issue, but not the weight. His Mike was literally covered in scars. Almost every inch of the exposed skin had some evidence of self harm. "Mikey. I'm so sorry..." Greg murmured as he gently rocked them, and surreptitiously examined the four new injuries on his Mike. "I didn't mean anything I said. Please Mycroft don't ever take yourself away from me. I love you, baby. So fucking much."

Mycroft continued to softly sob into Greg's chest, managing to choke out, "I love you too, Gregory. Please stay, I don't want to return to London. I want to be your geeky little writer, always."

"Don't worry about it, love. I'll be wherever you need me to be," Greg promised, gently bringing him back from the cliff. "Let's get you cleaned up, alright? Then I can get you some food." He carefully helped his love to his feet, and guided him to the bathroom.

Mycroft glanced around the room, and froze up when he saw Sherlock and the brother's pained face. "Brother, I..." Mycroft mumbled, watching Sherlock take a few steps forward, only to be gently held in the wiry arms.

"Don't ever take your life Myc, it's much too precious to so many. Your loss would break my heart." Sherlock pressed a kiss to his brother's clammy forehead, and before leaving, he added, "We'll talk about it later. After you eat."


	8. In Which Gregory Cares for His Myc

Greg watched Myc like a hawk as he finished the massive omelette set in front of him by his stern younger brother, and tried to erase the memories of the horrific scarring on Mycroft's body. Especially the huge, shiny burn to Myc's back, put there not by him, but by the bastard Richard Brook.

Suddenly the drumming noise of a helicopter invaded the room, and Myc visibly trembled in fear, whispering, "I don't need to go, Lock. I promise, I..."

Sherlock patted his brother's hand, murmuring, "I don't think you do, either. John was trying to get here as fast as he could." Sherlock looked at the door to the garden, where a short figure carrying a large case was coming in. 

Greg was stunned to see his former captain, now clean-shaven, stop in his tracks, looking between Greg and Myc, then at Sherlock, who nodded. John's temper had gotten the best of him after that small confirmation that his former army buddy was the cause of the code black, evidenced by Greg getting a second, even stronger _left_ hook to his jaw, and another vicious talking to.

Mycroft retreated to the study, until he didn't hear anything else from the kitchen. John had set out the usual supplies from the kit, and Myc hopped onto the barstool, letting John tend to his wounds, and taking the required shots against tetanus and various other diseases.

"Sherlock, John, I'm staying here, with Gregory. I name you co-CEO of Holmes publishings. I'm going to retire." Mycroft tugged his sleeves down over the bandages, as his brother and GM protested. "I never wanted to be a publisher. I'm going to continue my work as an author, I hope you understand."

Sherlock and John shared a meaningful look, before agreeing that it might be less stressful for the fragile man, and they would speak to the solicitor on Monday. "Brother Mine, if this is what you truly feel will give you happiness... Then I cannot in good conscience object."

"Greg is everything I never thought I needed. I will see Dr Stamford, and this time, I will stay on the medication." Myc, as Greg would now call him gave his younger brother a hug, before he and his lover left to arrange the necessary documents.

"Myc, you don't need to give up your life for me. I'm just..." Greg carefully took him into his strong arms, and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's cheek. "I love you."

"Life is meaningless without you Gregory. I can't imagine loving anyone more. I hope that together we might make this Edwardian monstrosity our home..."

"I'd love to."

* * *

"How's your Mycroft?" Sally asked one spring evening, as she and Greg finished up closing the shop. Greg grinned to himself, expounding on how the house was coming along, now that the contractors had finished painting, after removing most of the unnecessary walls.

Now his silly little Myc was fussing over the perfect arrangement of houseplants in the conservatory, and the ordering of the books in the study. It made Greg feel fit to burst with happiness, seeing how he was opening up.

"I'm happy for you two, I really am, Greg, if any one deserves love it's my two fools." Sally laughed at the mockingly affronted face Greg gave her. "Hey, if he is doing better, why don't we get together for drinks? Me, you, and our respective spouses. My place."

"I think we'd like that, Sall, I'll have to check with Myc, but next Saturday?" Greg locked the door to the café, and rubbed his hands together in the early April chill. 

"I'm sure we could make it work. Hey, we have that interview with the new barista on Wednesday, don't forget! See you tomorrow!" Sally waved, as she turned down the street, going back to her wife, and Greg started on home, where his Myckie waited.

Through the grate over the café window, Greg caught a glimpse of the depleted stack of _Thrillride: A Michel Hawthorne novel, by Mycroft Holmes._ He made a note to text Sherlock they'd need another shipment before long - people seemed to love the gay spy and the cafe worker.

Just as the silver haired man pulled out his phone, he got a ping, and muttered, "Speak of the devil..."

> I still don't trust you.
> 
> But you've made my brother stay on his meds.
> 
> You can marry him.
> 
> SH.

Greg literally laughed out loud, as he shot back his witty response.

> I appreciate your approval. 
> 
> GL
> 
> ;)

Just as he walked through the door, the overwhelming smell of beef and tomatoes hit him like a bag of bricks.

Myc was cooking.

Greg's stomach rumbled as he took off his shoes and jacket, then trotted off to the kitchen to set the table. But when he saw what his boyfriend was wearing, more specifically _how_ he was wearing the plain collared shirt, he let out a soft gasp of amazement.

He had rolled up the sleeves.

He'd put his ghosts on display.

Sure, Greg knew it was probably just because he felt safe. Or, maybe he didn't want to go and get goulash all over his crisp white linen, but still. He was comfortable enough to do it lhere, in their house. With him.

It was bliss.

Greg snuck up behind him, wrapping his arms around Myc's waist, and pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "I missed you, beautiful."

"I missed you too, Gregory. I finished another chapter of my novel. Sherlock has already started to work on the sequel to Thrillride's cover." Mycroft pulled the large stockpot off of the stove, and turned in his Gregory's arms to steal a kiss.

This. This is what he loved, his Gregory, and their home.

This was peace at last.

Though, of course the fear lurking in the back of his mind about Richard's pending parole hearing was a slight edge to his happiness, but they could never release a monster like him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

"Myc, baby, I'm home!" Greg toed off his shoes onto the mat, before listening for the telltale patter of keys. Myc was working almost non-stop since the release date had been set for _Marauders._ It was a rare day when Greg wouldn't have to drag his writer away from the computer for dinner.

So it was a terrifying moment when he realized the house was silent.

* * *

Mycroft trembled in the back of his closet, shuffling back further behind his suits. The footsteps in his bedroom echoed, as Richard Brook searched for him. He shouldn't have brushed off Sherlock's warning that his ex had been released. 

His one regret was that he was unable to tell Gregory how much he loved him before he died.

Tears slid down his cheeks, as he fought to stay silent, making sure he was hidden behind his clothes, as the handle of the closet turned. 

This was it.

He was going to die.

...

Strong, callused hands caressed his face, and the beautiful London accent of his darling murmured, "Myc, baby, it's your Gregory. Open your eyes."

"Darling." Mycroft buried his face in the tan skin of Gregory's neck, trembling in his lover's arms. He knew he was ruining the new shirt he had bought him with his salty tears, but he couldn't stop them. He was safe.

"Sshhh, darlin, you're alright. I've got you. Sshhh." Gregory's hands rubbed his back, bringing him back from the edge. "What happened?"

"R-Richard was released three weeks ago... And I saw him in our Tesco, when I went to get the groceries. He -" Myc curled his hands in Gregory's shirt, clinging to his lover. "Gregory, he threatened you."

* * *

Greg noticed the bastard a few days later, when he finally returned to work. It had been hell, getting Myc calm, but his boyfriend relented when Greg agreed to spend every other day at home.

Richard Brook had dead eyes, Greg noted, when he walked into the café.

Cold, dead, black eyes.

He remembered seeing the man out of the corner of his eye every now and then for the past two weeks. Greg's heart hammered in his ears, and the edges of his vision turned red, as the prick who fit Myc's description to the letter perused the menu.

"Can I get a coffee, Greg? Name of Richard Brook."

Greg had his last nerve touched, hearing the creep's familiar tone. "Get out."

"Now, now, Greggy. That's no way to treat a friend. Mycroft and I go _way_ back, after all." 

Ugh, the _smile_ on his face as Greg dragged him from his shop, and threw him on the pavement. It made the silver haired man's stomach churn. 

"Mycroft Holmes is _mine,_ Gregory. You'll regret not handing that delectable arse over while you had the chance." Richard wiped the thin trail of blood from the corner of his mouth, and laughed. "You're not the only one who enjoys being inside that weak, pathetic man. His hole _is_ addictive, I'll give you that, but -"

"Myc is not a piece of meat, you bastard! Come near us again and I'll make you regret it." Greg looked over his shoulder, hearing footsteps, and tried to shield his Myc from the vile man.

He knew there would be nightmares again. 

And hated Richard all the more.

* * *

This one was worse, Greg knew, as he held his love in his arms, letting his tears soak the old cotton shirt Greg slept in. He kissed the ginger curls and rubbed Myc's back, giving him the only comfort he could. Nothing had happened, Brook had dropped off the map since the street-side confrontation, not a peep had been heard from him.

It made no difference to Myc's subconscious, in fact, it increased the nightmares.

"I won't let him hurt you, Myckie. I promise." Greg kissed his forehead, when his writer looked up at him. "You _will_ be safe."

"I love you so much, Gregory. Please, please don't leave me. I need you to breathe." Myc's blue grey eyes were an ocean of fear and pain that crushed Greg's heart in an iron grip.

There was nothing he wouldn't do to make him safe.

Tomorrow, he would buy a gun, and if Richard decided to try and hurt his Myc, he wouldn't hesitate.

* * *

Mycroft glanced at the clock, noting that Greg would be home in two minutes, and he took the rice off of the burner, giving it a fluff. The beef was coming along perfectly, and he tossed in the vegetables to the stir fry. The sizzling was almost musical in nature, and the sun kissed the tops of the trees in the garden, giving Mycroft a sense of calm.

He heard the front door open, and without the slightest hesitation, called, "I'm in the kitchen, darling! Dinner is almost ready!"

Gregory's footsteps were slower than usual, and Mycroft feared he'd had tough customers. "Bad day, Gregory?"

"I'm afraid Greg's going to be having a _very_ bad day, Mycroft."

Myc wheeled around, the pan in his hands clattering to the floor, as he laid eyes upon the one person who he never wanted to be alone with.

_Richard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O_o
> 
> Again.
> 
> Sorry.
> 
> I promise, there is a happy ending....


	10. Chapter 10

Greg was running late, he knew that, but they hadn't seen not heard anything from Richard, so he was not rushing home. Myc had been a lot better, he still had an occasional nightmare, but they were making the best of the situation. The trees were filled out with leaves, the blossoms of spring scattered around the sidewalks leading to Baskerville Manor, all was good with the world...

Or so Greg thought, until he saw that the lock on the front door had been picked, and the door itself was left open carelessly.

Gregory Lestrade dropped his keys, and the first thing he did was _listen._ He heard a soft whimpering from the kitchen, and he followed it. Something squelched beneath Greg's trainers, as focused on finding his Myckie, he hadn't paid attention to the floor. A thin ribbon of blood trickled across the hardwood, following the slope of the house Myc didn't want to correct yet.

Following the trail, Greg stopped at what he saw behind their large island.

0o ok"Myckie? It's me. It's your Gregory."

Myc's blank eyes stared up at his face, and Greg gently eased the knife out of his boyfriend's hand. He wanted to be sure that the corpse in front of him was indeed Richard, before he tried to stop the bleeding of Myc's stomach wounds.

"G... Gregory. I... Love you." Myc tried to pull his hands away from the gashes, and he said as he slowly bled out, "Don't... Don't forget that, Gregory. I love you."

Greg held Mycroft Holmes, the man he loved, as the wail of an ambulance drew near. The alarm system Greg insistently checked had done its job.

"Myc, Baby, hold on...." Greg sobbed against his lover's forehead, focusing on the shallow breathing of his Myc. "Please, Myc. I need you..."

* * *

Sarah Sawyer had seen her fair share of angry spouses, but her old friend Greg Lestrade took the cake. He had punched an orderly, and had needed three of the surgeons to restrain him, when he was denied access to the room where Mycroft was barely clinging to life.

"He's my boyfriend, dammit! I... Just please, let me see him!" 

Sarah had heard Greg's familiar voice frantically shouting - from all the way down in the geriatric ward, no less- and came running. She knew there was only one person who Greg would be that desperate to see.

Mycroft.

"Hey, Anderson, Donovan, let him in." Sarah wasn't used to seeing this from her friend, and even without knowing the details or prognosis, she could see how much it was tearing him to pieces, not being with his boyfriend.

"Sarah, he's -"

"He's family. I know you have rules, but," Sarah pulled out her best board of directors voice, and the steel in her eyes, "He. Is. Family."

The doctors released Greg, who sagged limply against the door he'd been fighting to get to. He sobbed brokenly as he struggled to stay upright, and Sarah supported him into the chair by the bed.

God, Mycroft looked like hell. How could this happen?

"Baby..." Sarah stayed silent as Greg began to talk to the patient, his hands cradling Mycroft's as tenderly as he could. "Baby, you're gonna make it... And I will never leave you alone again.... Please, Myckie, I want to marry you, but I can't if you don't pull through..."

...

It took five days for Mycroft Holmes to open his eyes, but the first thing that the writer saw was Greg. 

He hadn't left the author's side the entire time, and it took Sherlock and John telling him that the police weren't going to pursue a case, for him to even sleep. When he did, it was in a spare bed that Sarah had arranged in the room. He wouldn't even have a wash, something Myc noted upon waking with a wrinkling of his nose.

Greg simply laughed, and kissed his cheek, admitting that he was a bit shaggier than he liked.

But it didn't matter, because his writer had pulled through. 

* * *

"Sherlock, are you sure this suit doesn't show the..." Mycroft fussed in the church's mirror, waiting for the moment he would walk down the short aisle to marry his Gregory.

"Mycroft, you're an idiot if you think Graham will care about two measly pounds." Sherlock yawned, apparently disinterested, but Myc knew the gleam of joy in his eyes was for him.

"You are well aware that it's Gregory." Mycroft had stopped minding his brother's purposeful deleting of his groom's name a long time ago. They maintained a good natured feud, trying to one up each other for Myc's first drafts of the novels. Greg usually won.

"Are you sure you want the red?"

"Absolutely."

"Then we're ready."

Greg's face when he saw the beauty of his Myc as he started down the aisle was the only thing that mattered. It made him feel remarkable, and the luckiest guy in the world, that his husband looked at him with such love on his face.

The vows were read, with not just a few years, and the reception over, when Gregory turned to his husband, a champagne flutes held up to toast.

"What is this one to?" Myc asked, clinking the glass on his hand.

"To being perfectly happy, and stupidly in love for the rest of our lives."

"A perfect sentiment. Mind if I steal it for the next installment of our retirement fund?"

The blissful fools did just what Greg said, and more, together.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with it, I love these guys to pieces.... Maybe a little too much.
> 
> And, I am making a quick public service announcement...
> 
> I will be pretty much quitting my fanfiction writing for a while, because I have started an original fic! That might eventually be a published work!
> 
> It was supposed to be a Destiel pseudo - Omegaverse, but it got... Warped. And then I decided the incredible exercise in world building was just too much for a fanfic.
> 
> So... If you ever come across a werewolf dystopian novel called An Omega's Gift... Say hi.
> 
> And of course read it....


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a note...

Hey, guys!

I just wanna tell you about the latest work, and maybe get some feedback...

It's an original fic, sort of an A/B/O universe, werewolves, of course. If you want to come on and check it out, I'll be grateful.

It's called An Omega's Gift.

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🌙

Typewrittencurlie. 


End file.
